This is for my children.
It is amazing how the need to leave a mark, to be remembered, to be immortal in some way is so deeply etched in the human psyche. Since the first caveman made marks with a sharpened rock in some cave, as if to say to all those who laid eyes on the rocky walls months, years and ages later, 'I was here.' The 'I' in us is the first thought to separate the newborn from those around it. The next is 'my'. 'My mother', 'my father'. All our lives, we live based on these two things. I-me-my-mine is the chant of the ego that our world revolves around.
Until, one day, we discover that life never does go according to our script. Sorrow, age, change, applies to us too. And in our quest for happiness, in chasing it, we have defeated the purpose. We chase it. There is the problem-- for it will elude us, for the simple reason that it was always with us. It may seem a huge cliche but happiness is within. It always was, except that its voice was drowned out by the shrill chant of the ego that went 'I-me-my-mine'... since we came into this world.
I cannot remember when I became aware of the big questions of life....they were inarticulate, if at all. My conscious memory is of looking at a sepia photograph of a man in an immaculate suit, his eyes slightly reflective yet hopeful. My grandfather. He died when I was barely three, so I did not know him. There is another photograph...at eighty-one His eyes are tranquil but with a strangely faraway expression. His life was a struggle; as an orphan brought up by an uncle, the fact that he completed schooling and taught himself to speak excellent English speaks of his grit and intelligence. He got a job as a clerk in the private office of the mother of the ruler of the erstwhile Baroda State, Maharaja Sayajirao Gaekwad. Rani Jamnabai was a good judge of character and something about the honest young man appealed to her. Later he was entrusted with the inventory and handling of her personal jewellery, state gifts and all her personal accounts, which he kept meticulously.
There were those who feathered their nests but he continued to live in the tiny little house and take on the financial responsibility of not only his own family but that of his wife's sister and cousins as well. The less said about my grandmother the better. She was the embodiment of spiritual poverty, unable to trust, a joyless and superstitious woman. She played victim with ease, manipulating others to believe she was the victim of fate; as false as he was genuine, as deceitful as he was honest.
These vignettes about both of them came from my mother, who was intelligent and forthright in her opinions. She told me about what my grandfather was like as a young man-an atheist, quick to anger, self-willed and egoistic. What interested me most was the turning point in his life and the subsequent change in him. It was the meeting with a holy man who had given him anugraha, the spiritual transference of the holy name of God from Guru to disciple. He was instructed to wake early, bathe and say the name of the Lord with love and devotion for an hour every day. Mental and spiritual hygiene was implicit along with this practise in all dealings, whether with his inner self or with others.
How my atheist grandfather became a believer is a story in itself and I wish I could have heard it from his own lips. He kept meticulous diaries; I am sure he would have recorded that day. The Maharani who was deeply religious, had donated money towards the building of stone steps called ghats, on the Narmada river at an obscure village called Garudeshwar. A holy man had made the riverbank his home, living in a thatched hut. An ancient temple of Lord Shiva stood there and people had started coming from all over to meet the saint. The Maharani had stone ghats constructed so that access to the river was made easier for the saint to bathe in the river. Grandpa had to look over the accounts and so it happened that he had to go to Garudeshwar. It is customary that one does not go empty-handed when visiting a saint or to the temple. Grandpa refused to take anything, saying he would not touch any man’s feet or offer money as dakshina, offerings. His mind was restless and in those days he had a temper that was feared by everyone. In combination with his westernized outlook, he was a misfit in every way- both among his fellow-Hindus and most definitely among the British whose clubs had the trenchant sign, ‘Dogs and Indians not allowed.’
So it was that he arrived at Garudeshwar after a long and bumpy journey, with an attitude of superiority, quite determined not to buy into anyone’s fervid devotion to another human being. From a height the rocky banks were festooned with clumps of weeds that scrambled untidily towards the stone steps. The Narmada river, wide and fast, glided on in a swathe of silvery grey; perched higher up on the hill was the swami’s tiny hut, a single mud-thatched, doorless room. Grandpa asked one of the locals, ‘Where is the swami?’ He pointed towards the far distance and sure enough, in the middle of the river, with just his head above the water, was the holy man. It was odd, Grandpa thought, that the saint was in exactly the same place in such a current, that too in the middle of the river. The Narmada besides being extremely rapid was dangerous; whirlpools abounded and boats were known to have vanished without a trace in her murky depths. What was even odder was maybe ten or twelve huge logs in a concentric circle a hundred feet across from the head at the centre of the river. They were unmoving too. As Grandpa watched, the saint slowly began to move towards the bank and as he did, the logs made way for him to pass. It dawned on him then that they were not logs at all! They were enormous crocodiles, who could not cross the force-field of the saint’s yogic power. The swami emerged, a dark, slightly built figure with closely cropped grey hair, clad just in a waistcloth and a thin cloth around his bony shoulders.
Forgetting everything, Grandpa ran and fell at his feet and the words that came out of his mouth next were astonishing, more so to himself than to anyone else. ‘O Maharaj, give me moksha, freedom from this unending cycle of birth and death!’ Swami Maharaj looked at him with his deep-set, intense eyes and said gently, ‘Think what you are asking for; you will have to bear all the sufferings of your karma in this life, though. There is no escaping that.’ Grandpa agreed instantly and the next morning he was given anugraha, the holy name of God, by Swami Maharaj through yogic power which is given from Guru to disciple in India’s spiritual tradition. The swami was none other than the legendary incarnation of Lord Dattatreya, Shree Swami Vasudevananda Saraswati. Grandpa could never explain how he was thus transformed in an instant. He would say that it was a tremendous power that propelled him and it seemed to emanate from the divine presence of the Master; his father, mother, mentor, teacher and companion, his God who walked the earth.
Then the British began to pare down the retinue and private staff of the rulers and at forty, he found himself without a job. He had suffered all his life from ulcers. His oldest son was a nightmare, a schizophrenic who had the most inexplicable hatred for him; he was indulged and spoilt by the mother and feared by the rest of the family. Yet grandpa found a job at a grocery store and never complained about the comedown. He radiated a deep inner joy, a tranquility that was untouched by the vissicitudes of his life and on his last day, passed from this world with the name of God on his lips without the least suffering or fear of death.
It was this last bit that always interested me. I want to go like him, I would think to myself. I did not think about it long enough or hard enough but my mother often mentioned him. Possibly because she often voiced the wish that she hoped her exit from the world would be like his, the same thought recurred to me sometimes in adulthood. Especially after her death, I wondered how similar to his in every way her life had been. Through the emotional strife and her own struggle with depression, and a daughter who was her worst enemy, she had one day chanced on the Dnyaneshwari; the Marathi commentary on the Gita, by a 16-year old saint who embodied the Self, written in the 13th century. It belonged to my grandfather; my uncle sent all his old books to our house after a cleaning spree. The huge,dusty yellow volumes were just stacked under the table until she pulled it out one day.
Diffidently, she started reading, because the dialect was unfamiliar, the subject profoundly spiritual and it was in verse as well. Later I would find her poring over it, wiping her eyes with the end of her sari. When I asked why she was crying, she would say they were tears of joy. Sometimes she would read me a verse or two and explain it. I was a self-centred teenager then, with the world at my feet; for the most part, I listened to humour her.
It was uncanny that nearly twenty years later, when I was wallowing in self-pity, this one line, heard just once, should come back to me with such persistent lure, as if calling me from another universe; so elusive, yet so clear in my head, again and again, until I went to Youtube and keyed in the part of the verse I remembered. There it was, extraordinarily enough...
'A crow is cawing on the mango tree in my yard
I will give you rice and curds O crow
And dip your feet in gold
Tell me my friend, the auspicious news
That the Lord is coming to my home at last!'
The longing for God which is in these lines suddenly brought home to me the real meaning of immortality. It is not in the fickle fame of the individual ego; due to wealth, politics, or by becoming a leader of men. It is the true immortality of the soul. It is the immortality that can touch the soul of a person enough to bring tears to the eyes of someone eight hundred years after a sixteen year old saint put pen to paper and wrote these words. It speaks to another soul across time and space, because, quite simply it is the voice of God.
That was the day my regrets about my unrealized dreams of career and worldly achievements vanished like a cloud on a summer day. Years of therapy could not have assuaged the pangs of regret I always held in my heart all my adult life. Blame, bitterness, anguish...all gone. The worldly knowledge, the degrees, the names and labels, the symbols of status and honour that the world so prides itself on...it does not matter. You can still be discontented, jealous, negative, greedy, hateful inspite of the fact that you have all the wealth and power possible and though you be a millionnaire, you will be a beggar at the time of your death. You have nothing. You leave the world nothing-- for in a blink, there will be a new name that the world runs after. You take all your burdens with you. Kings, actors , billionnaires, celebrities...all of them have gone the same path. None of them have lit the heart of someone hundreds of years later with divine peace as saints have done.
This blog is about what I am learning on this journey we have on this planet. The tears and travails of each of us is unique, yet there is a commonality. Nobody's life goes according to the script they write for themselves; What happens beyond our control is that we have made with the karmic results of our own previous journeys, the seeds we have sown in previous lifetimes.The decisions and behaviour of this life is where we have free will. We blame and complain while muddling through life without seeing the big picture. It need not be so. It took me half a lifetime of the school of hard knocks to begin to learn. My hope is that I can share some of the insights I am beginning to have so that you do not muddle through your own journey but pursue your real purpose with the belief born of truth. I have lived this, just as my grandfather did. Had my youthful eyes read his old diaries, life might have been different.
We think,'When I am old, I will check out spirituality, when I have the time. That too, if it does not mean I have to make major internal changes. Right now, I am too busy.' Introspection is anathema to us as humans because it needs courage to look into our own psyche. Then there is the intellectual pose that we use, when confronted by a spiritual question. We say, 'Oh, I am an agnostic.' That is pure laziness wearing the mask of intellectualism. If you profess to possess even a basic intellect, the excuse of 'not knowing' does not work. Have you tried? Have you read, not stupid self-help books but the real work of the saints who were self-realized? Glib gurus can talk on Youtube and get a following. Have you tried to understand the message of the Gita? There are people who even say they 'know' the Gita. They have read it. The height of stupidity is to profess to know the Gita or the Bible or the Kuran. It has to be lived. In this world, surrounded by the same false, ugly, cowardly, ignorant people who were around Krishna and Christ, we have to live by their divine words.
What does moksha really mean then? It means to be free, independent of your circumstances, of your interactions with people and the world. You live, play the cards you are dealt with grace and live among the people who are for karmic reasons, family, friends and enemies. You accept that whatever you have is given by Divine will and make decisions guided by what is the highest ideal in life. It may be difficult, but if that decision is aligned with the divine, you are sure to be at peace. Your happiness is independent of whether you have something or not. That was what my grandfather had. Moksha. On this earth, in that body, he lived with a tranquil mind and walked with the immortals. He achieved it, I think. Kabir, Meera, Tulsi, Surdas....India is home to the immortals who have trodden her soil. She has a spiritual heritage that is deeper than the deepest ocean, rich with pearls if one cares to dive.
I hope you will live a life of self-awareness, of introspection and enough personal honesty to think for yourself; to know that the highest purpose of the intellect is to understand that spiritual knowledge is beyond the intellect. To walk the path towards God requires His grace. Faith is a gift which you either have or do not. If you do, you are blessed. If not, ask God for it. Who else has the power?
The western world and its scientific thinking, logical reasoning and argumentative philosophies is crippled. Their suffering, in spite of reasonable material comforts is a testimony to the fact that their souls are starved and empty of joy. You have an Indian heritage, the grace of Self-Realized souls through which these words come to you. They might be my experiences and understanding, but know I cannot profess to be the one giving anybody anything that they do not already have within. That small, still voice inside you is the voice of God. If you choose to hear it, understand it and live by it, you willeventually be free. That alone is the purpose of human existence.
